Currently reading : she said “you’re done.” and I said “great!’
“Crippled to the death”, she said and started laughing so I started laughing and she lit a black cigar and we smoked it, smoking and smoking and smoking until there was nothing but white, or near-yellowish white, and I could see nothing except smoke and I was all so very glad to be out there, smoking and blind, past the tables and chairs and people flirting and couples fighting, and the bottles of tonic and the bottles of vodka and the olives. At that moment I realized truly I just missed my mother, a tiny bit, there in the smoke, feeling myself disappearing. I wished I could have seen her one last time; wished I could have been her all along, which is all I ever wanted somehow, as a girl, as a woman even, to be a mother and suddenly I thought back to it all and whispered, “So long, I’m off. I am always trying to imagine death, and I thought I would imagine better one day, but have not.”
Two poor Chinese opium smokers. Gouache painting on rice-paper, 19th century.
Two wealthy Chinese opium smokers. Gouache painting on rice-paper, 19th century.